Spell Gone Kersplat
by Alibi Nonsense
Summary: Draco Malfoy could be gotten rid of forever, with the help of a banishment spell located in the restricted section. Unfortunately, the wizarding trio didn't know that only the person saying the spell was safe. Landing smack bang in the middle of the Akatsuki breakfast table, Potter, Weasley and Malfoy find themselves with a lot of explaining to do.
1. Chapter 1

Draco honestly didn't think a day could get any worse.

It had started before he had woken up: in his dream. He had been laughing maniacally as his arch-nemesis had sunk ever deeper into the crocodile-infested swamp (as you do) when, suddenly, to the boy's great surprise, Potter had vanished from the slime and reappeared next to Draco muttering awful curses involving his mother and half a pair of rusty tweezers and threatening to write to the Divination teacher to request extra lessons. (He had woken up sweating.)

_Then_ he had gone down to breakfast (realised he had forgotten his tie, gone back up again, put on his tie, beaten up a first year who had dared to ask him why he was wearing a red tie, gone back, changed his tie, beaten up the offending first year's little friend who had _dared_ to ask him why he had beaten up his friend about a tie, beaten up Blaise for asking why he had to get so worked up about a stupid tie – it was just a tie for heaven's sakes, glared at Pansy Parkinson for _daring_ to ask why Blaise was on the floor groaning and gone _back_ down to breakfast) to discover that his toast had gone cold and the first years had nicked all the jam.

Potions had been boring, Divination had been awful, he had been shouted at in Transfiguration no less than _three_ times _in front of Potter_ and now he was locked in a cupboard.

He wasn't sure _how_ exactly Granger had managed to lock him in a cupboard, but it had involved a house-elf, a jar of spiders and a rather unsuspecting lump of butter. And, now that he _was_ locked in a cupboard with the gleaming-eyed members of the Potter-Posse, he knew it wasn't something he was going to boasting about any time soon.

"Dragon thou art,

"Dragon shall stay."

And now Granger seemed to be putting a curse on him...

"Rendered flightless,

"Sent away,"

Yep, definitely a curse; probably looked up in the restricted section, knowing Mudblood.

"Cursed to dwell in living hell,

"In thy lair shall lay..."

He was banking on the spell being a dud: it sounded nasty.

"Ancient circle,

"Take him in,

"Strip him of his blackest sin,

"Use him as a weapon thus,

"No more will he bother us..."

A strange curdled shade of yellow seemed to be pulsating round the edges of the room. Potter and Weasley were looking pleased ('Oh you've got to be kidding me...' thought Draco, paling noticeably) but Granger looked worried, her eyes contracting frantically in the whitening light as it trickled steadily out of the want to form a sphere in the middle of the room.

"Ryu-san wa y-yamen-nasai..." She was stuttering now and shaking. "Pein k-kaiketsu s-sinasai!"

And, at 'sinasai', the sphere exploded, sucking in the frightened occupants (all except Granger whom the parchment had seemingly formed a sort of barrier around) and hurling them into the blackness of another dimension.

(A/N) The end bit of the curse means something like 'Dragon, stop' and 'Pein take in'. Please send corrections if I've got it all wrong, but forgive me: it's rather difficult to write poetry in a different language!

That goes for other errors as well, including plot errors.


	2. Chapter 2

They landed, with a thump, in something hot, wet and sticky. Draco groaned. His father would hear about this! He pulled some bits of broken crockery out from under himself and opened his eyes.

"KAT-"

"Don't blow them up, you idiot: we'll get caught in the blast range. Not to mention I'm made of _wood_. Honestly!"

Draco sat up, startled; to think that he might've been dead on the ground was it not for some overgrown bowtruckle! He shuddered, just thinking about it.

Looking around, he tried to identify the wooden one – he knew he would recognise the voice – but the room's occupants had all fallen strangely silent and were standing quietly, staring... Behind him, he felt the blood-traitor Weasley stir slightly. Potter, he knew, was still unconscious.

If only one of them were awake... He'd have an ally (albeit a very reluctant one) and maybe, together, they could find a way to... to defeat these...muggles... Now that he thought about it, he was rather a coward, wasn't he? He, the handsome pureblood, proud heir of the Malfoy estate, scared of a few muggles? Although one did have a bomb... and, now that he was paying more attention, he noticed some rather strange... attributes, shall we say? After all, one was practically a tree. Then there was another with... gills... and skin a lovely shade of ocean blue. Another had his face pierced with so many studs that, had they been freckles, he could've been a Weasley (had the hair for it too).

Actually, the only _sane_ looking one was the blonde woman...

No, maybe not: she looked murderous. Oh, and she seemed to have _mouths_ in her hands too; how lovely.

The guy with red eyes was the safest bet: he, at least, didn't look evil or really bored (Draco knew from experience how dangerous powerful people were when they were bored), and the silver haired man beside him too... although, with stitches in his _neck_...

Weasley (finally) sat up. Draco now, at least, got the pleasant feeling that he wasn't the only one feeling nauseous.

"Look, Malfoy..."

A very annoyed, "What? I'm busy!" from the corner of a mouth.

"Listen; about the whole curse thing..."

"Yeah, forget it."

"What? Bloody hell... um... I mean... look, thanks... um..."

"Don't mention it."

"What?"

"I said... I... look, beat yourself up about it later, ok? I'll help if you want but..."

"No, thanks Malfoy... uh..."

"Temporary truce."

"Yeah... uh... bloody hell... I..."

"_Temporary!_"

"Bloody hell! Ok! Ok!"

xxx

From across the room, Pein chuckled softly: the type of shinobi chuckle only a proficient ninja could issue; the not-meant-for-more-than-one-set-of-ears kind of chuckle. Konan heard it anyway. He had sort of intended her to, after all.

"Do you think we should tell them to quieten down a bit? I think they might've offended the deaf old coot in the next village."

His fiancée looked bemused.

"No," she mouthed, smiling, "I don't."

xxx

Now that Potter was awake, the human pin-cushion spoke up.

"Who...are...you?"

It appeared that the spell had enabled them to understand the natives. Draco mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Potter who answered, giving their names politely and explaining the situation. And, instead of frowning and accusing them of lying, the man actually started nodding like he _understood_ rogue curses backfiring like it was normal!

'Perhaps,' Draco thought, 'muggles aren't as stupid as I had originally anticipated.'

The other occupants in the room were still completely silent, engrossed in the three twelve-year-olds sitting on their breakfast table. Potter quietened and the not-Weasley frowned.

"You don't have a summoning contract? They're the best way to return home."

The boy-who-lived blinked in surprise, then shook his head.

"We're not from this dimension," he reminded him.

"Leader-sama."

"I'm sorry? I don't understand."

"You can address me as 'Leader-sama'."

"Oh, ok. My apologies, Leader-sama. No, we don't have summoning contracts. In our dimension we say 'accio...whatever' and the thing comes to us. It's not specific."

"It doesn't return when you've finished with it?"

"No, Leader-sama."

"Oh. Well... bollocks."

Draco rolled his eyes. The Leader-sama turned to looked pointedly at him.

"Care to... elaborate?" His voice was careless, but his face was hard. For Draco, whose face-reading skills happened to be abysmal, there was no warning.

"Pardon me, Leader-sama," smirked the boy, "but why should we listen to you? After all, we happen to be wizards and, in our dimension, wizards reign supreme. If you are not a wizard in our dimension, you are not worth noticing."

Dark chuckles came from various points around the room and Draco's smug smile dribbled off his face.

"Well then," smirked Leader-sama, "I suppose you wouldn't mind being introduced on equal terms?"

He held out his hand. When Draco shook it, it was deathly cold.

"My name's Pein. The name of the corpse you are shaking hands with is Nagato. If my team-mate was still alive, he would be pleases to meet you."

Draco whimpered and let go of his hand. Weasley was paling fast. The Potter boy had gone a sickly shade of yellow. Pein continued.

"This is Konan. She is my other team-mate and the only female member of the Akatsuki."

The blue-haired woman stepped forward. Draco found himself nodding like a lunatic.

"Then there's Zetsu, a cannibalistic plant hybrid with split personalities; Kakuzu, a miserly immortal who keeps himself alive by gouging out the hearts of his enemies and making them his own; Hidan, also immortal, a masochistic follower of the pagan god Jashin to whom he ritually sacrifices his enemies; Sasori, who makes corpses into puppets; Deidara, a pyromanic arsonist with mouths in his hands; Kisame, a shark in human form and Itachi, who brutally slaughtered his entire family for no apparent reason whatsoever. I humbly apologise for my mistaken belief that all of us put together might've out ranked the three teenage wizards on our breakfast table. Itachi? Show Draco-hime and his little friends around, will you? I believe you have some old clothes you can lend them up in your room."

The red-eyed man stepped forward, bowing slightly to his superior and then turning to them. Draco climbed red-faced out of what he now realised was tomato soup and followed their mass-murdering guide slimily out of the room, Potter and Weasley bringing up the rear.

The corridor was ordinary (thank goodness), with bright hundred-watt bulbs, green carpeting and a row of doors set into the white of the wall. Draco started to feel more relaxed. His knees stopped shaking. His customary smirk grew once again on his now-not-as-pale-as-death face and he gathered up sufficient courage to ask, "How long are we staying?"

"As long as it takes to get you back home," came the reply and Itachi stopped at a door at the end of the corridor with a small, metal plaque reading 'ITACHI' on it. He unlocked it.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, with bare, apple-green walls and a large mahogany chest of drawers next to the bed. Draco watched their guide kneel down and drag a large, buckled suitcase out from underneath it (the bed), not daring to enter the room, but wanting desperately to be allowed in and see the contents for himself. Itachi unbuckled the suitcase. He undid the zipper. He threw back the heavy lid...

Inside it were clothes. Draco was disappointed. As Itachi stood up, he gave an annoyed huff and started to scowl. Potter elbowed him in the ribs. Their guide turned around.

"You may change in here," he said, quietly. "I will be waiting outside." And he slipped out of the room, pushed them in, and shut the door. Weasley immediately started stripping, piling up his old clothes in a corner and rifling through the suitcase's contents. In it there were open-toed sandals, ¾ length trousers in either black or melancholy blue, t-shirts made of chicken-wire, long-sleeved cowl-necks (again, navy blues and blacks), bandages (Draco had seen them used by some of the other Akatsuki to bind the trousers at the bottom) and, at the bottom, a smaller, teenage-sized version of the Akatsuki cloak (the one they had all seen made so terrifying earlier in the day).

"Bloody hell, Harry!" said Weasley, "They fit me!"

"How old _was_ he when he wore these?" murmured Potter. "Our age? Doesn't seem right, somehow, joining a gang of thugs when you're our age."

"Probably just small for his age."

"Probably."

Draco pulled on a turtle-neck and stayed silent. He wouldn't degrade himself by joining the conversation, no matter how brilliant his contribution would've been. He glanced momentarily at the bedside table that had previously been obscured from his view. On it was a very jaded digital alarm clock that had seen better days, a reading lamp and a pine-framed photograph. Draco frowned and picked it up, carefully, so as not to leave marks. He had a feeling Itachi didn't like people touching his stuff.

In the photo were four people: a frowning man, a smiling woman and two small, dark-haired boys; the perfect nuclear family. The elder boy looked about eight and he stood proudly in the middle of the photograph with his little brother on his shoulders, grinning happily.

'Who would've known? Who would've known that beneath that smile lay an apathetic killer? Not me, that's for sure.'

A shadow fell over the picture he held and Draco gulped, looking up slowly. Itachi held out a hand and the photograph ended up back in its place. Draco was... terrified. Weasley and Potter, he saw, were fully dressed now, standing curiously and watching him.

Itachi's face was cold. Devoid of emotion. A blank slate... although not one you'd dare write upon. You could almost imagine that self same face staring up at you from inside a coffin, were it not for the warning glint in his eye.

"I... I-I-I-I'm sorry, s-s-sir. I-I-I-I..."

"I take it you can guess who they are?"

"Y-y-your family?"

"Correct. Killed by my hand."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Never touch my things again."

And he was let off, just like that.

xxx

"I'll show you the sitting room and let you get settled, then I must leave you."

No-one dared ask why. They followed him in tense silence, treading softly lest he lash out and kill them as he had killed the people in the picture. Draco wondered what had stopped him being so happy, so long ago...

Probably life... it tended to do that.

The sitting-room wasn't your ordinary sitting-room, but it wasn't large enough to impress, either. Instead, it retained an air of superiority (despite faded wallpaper, thread-bare carpet and suspicious dents in the door) enough so that, when they entered, even Draco was tentative to perch on the sofa seats.

Itachi left, as soon as he was sure they were staying, for his own reasons, leaving the inseparable pair and their arch nemesis wondering whether or not to swallow their pride and start a conversation. Draco twitched uncomfortably on the shabby plaid armchair and gulped.

"So..." muttered Potter, "um, nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

"Dunno," said Weasley, shifting awkwardly and going a bit pink. "Didn't really notice it."

"Yeah... well it... Actually, probably wasn't worth noticing anyway..."

Another uncomfortable silence.

"My mum's gonna kill me..."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"There isn't a telly anywhere, is there?"

"Didn't see one..."

"No?"

"No."

"Huh. Bloody typical. What kind of dimension is it if it hasn't even got a telly?"

Behind the sofa, somebody cleared his throat.

xxx

(A/N)

Draco-hime = Princess Draco

Sama = a term of respect

Pyromanic = A word I made up that turns 'Pyromaniac' into an adjective.


	3. Chapter 3

Ron spun round. It was the blonde git from before, just standing there, scowling. Ron glared. Bastard could just shove off. Unfortunately for Ron, the bastard did not just shove off.

"What the _fuck_ is a telly, un?"

Ron snorted.

'Bloody blonde bastard. Fancy not knowing what a telly is!'

Blondie's eyes went icy cold.

'I just said that out loud, didn't I? Crap.'

"What did you just say?"

Malfoy and Harry watched in amazement as Ron squared up his shoulders.

"I said you're a bastard."

"Oh you did, un?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Well I'm not, am I? My parents were happily married."

"You could still be a bastard."

"Fuck you, Ginger, un."

"Blonde bastard."

"Better dumb than soulless!"

"You're pretty soulless yourself!"

"Shut your trap, redhead!"

"Git. Your leader's just as ginger as me."

"Who says he isn't, un?"

Ron paused. "So... so you think he's a git?"

The blonde shrugged, walking round from behind the sofa and collapsing heavily into the other armchair. There was a clack and a dull thud as yet another spring broke.

"Yeah."

"And a bastard?"

"Yeah, un."

"And soulless?"

The man's eyes lit up and he grinned a feral grin.

"We're all soulless here, un," he said, and slowly licked his lips.

Harry shivered. Ron paled considerably. Malfoy looked very scared. The blonde chuckled and released the grin.

"Got you there, un," he said, slipping his hand into the depths of his Akatsuki cloak and easing out a rather bulky porn magazine. The boys tried not to look.

"Deidara."

"What, Sasori-danna, un? I'm trying to read."

Ron looked up. Deidara had gone back to looking at the magazine.

"Normally," Sasori started, plucking the offending object from his startled pupil's grasp, "I wouldn't care less."

"But?" The word was hate-based.

"But I'd rather you didn't repeatedly run off with my reference books."

Deidara spluttered. "REFERENCE BOOKS!?"

"Yes." Sasori seemed unperturbed.

"THAT'S THE BIGGEST LOAD OF SHIT I EVER HEARD! YOU **PERV**, SASORI! YOU OUT AND OUT **PERV**!"

Sasori shrugged, pocketing his 'reference book' and turning to go.

"Unlike you," he said, "I am not interested in gorging myself on scantily-clad women. This is merely for academic purposes-"

"Oh _sure_..." It was sneered. Sasori narrowed his eyes.

"Are you _quite_ finished?"

"What do you need to reference in them anyway, un?"

The puppet-master stuck his nose into the air. "Art," he said, airily. Deidara scowled.

"Yeah. Art. Sure, un."

Ron turned to Harry, who had been watching the proceedings in avid trepidation, and nudged him awkwardly.

"Oi."

His friend turned. "What?"

"They're distracted! Let's escape!"

"Where to?"

"I dunno... but I've still got my wand. Reckon we could use that."

"Give it up, Ron. We haven't a clue where we are!"

"But it's the perfect opportunity!"

"We'll get other perfect opportunities!"

"How can you be so sure!?"

"I'm not sure! I just know, ok?! Now is _not_ a good time!" He gestured vaguely at the pair arguing. Deidara had Sasori by the collar and was gesticulating wildly to emphasise his point.

"Art is instantaneous! It inspires people! It unites people in one fantastic boom! A light flare! A firework! A bang, un!"

"Art is not a bang. The only thing a bang does in reference to art in desecrate it. Explosions are preposterous."

"Explosions are life, un!"

"How many people died last time?"

"No-one!"

"The time before?"

"No-one again!"

"Before that?"

"Why do you always have to assume I aim to kill people, un?"

Sasori jerked out of Deidara's grip. "I've seen you," he said. "You smile."

"And?"

Ron paled. He felt his friend stiffen beside him.

"Enough of this," said Sasori, after a pause. "Our guests are getting frightened." And he took the magazine and left the room. Deidara scowled.

"Bastard..." he muttered, slumping back down into the armchair. "Art needs a soul, not a screwdriver."


End file.
